


Linger On

by Sass_Master



Category: Supernatural
Genre: First Kiss, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-30
Updated: 2015-11-30
Packaged: 2018-05-04 03:57:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5319563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sass_Master/pseuds/Sass_Master
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean’s laughter dies down and there’s a pause, a lull, where they simply look at one another, as they have so many times. Castiel understands the potential in these moments, has observed humanity for long enough – and, more recently, consumed enough modern media – to recognize how these empty spaces are meant to be filled.</p><p>Castiel’s suddenly so tired of dancing around this, refuses to squander these opportunities any longer when they’re so few and far between, so quick to slip away. Castiel could be gone by tomorrow.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Linger On

**Author's Note:**

> Taking a break from my series (still in progress!) for some out of the blue non-smut.

Castiel supposes there are more important matters for him to attend to, that there’s research to dive into or rogue angels to track down, but when Dean gruffly extends an invitation to split a six-pack and ‘veg out’ with some television, Castiel can’t find a reason to turn him down. He’s not sure that he even tries.

He doesn’t care much for the taste of beer right now – doesn’t taste it much at _all_ , really, and definitely can’t get drunk on it – but he likes feeling included in the ritual of the whole thing. It also gives him something to do with his surprisingly restless hands, picking at the damp, peeling label to center himself when he finds himself distracted by the long column of Dean’s throat as he takes a swig from his bottle, his thigh pressing against Castiel’s on the couch cushions.

Once they’re about ready to turn in for the night (whatever ‘turning in’ means for Castiel, considering he doesn’t sleep) they gather up the empty bottles so Sam can take them to the recycling center. Dean may roll his eyes over it, but he dutifully leaves the recyclables in neat little rows on the kitchen counter. Dean doesn’t immediately disappear into his room as expected, instead lingering with Castiel, engaged in innocuous conversation, reflecting on the absurd, late-night infomercials they’ve spent the last two hours engrossed in.

It’s one of those too-rare evenings where Dean seems infinitely more at ease, the set of his shoulders less tight, the furrow in his brow softer. He laughs at something that, apparently, was far more hilarious than Castiel had intended. Castiel never fails to experience a surge of vain satisfaction when he gets Dean to laugh like that, even if doesn’t quite grasp how he’s accomplished it. Often enough it’s a feat he manages without trying, but the urge to do it deliberately gets stronger by the day. He wants to do everything in his power – not as an angel of the lord, but as Castiel, as _Cas_ – to make Dean look that happy all the time.

Castiel is captivated, as always, by the deepening lines near Dean’s eyes when he smiles (oh, his _smile_ ), enchanted by the smattering of freckles on his cheeks and nose, his green eyes strikingly lovely even in the harsh florescent light. He’s so _beautiful_ it’s almost too much to look at him, Castiel’s heart squeezing in his chest, pulse thudding more rapidly.  Castiel no longer has the energy to stop those thoughts from rising to the surface, can’t possibly be expected to keep them at bay with Dean looking radiant and inviting, mere feet from where Castiel is standing.

Dean’s laughter dies down and there’s a pause, a lull, where they simply look at one another, as they have so many times. Castiel understands the potential in these moments, has observed humanity for long enough – and, more recently, consumed enough modern media – to recognize how these empty spaces are meant to be filled.

There’s no way Castiel, observant as he is, would miss it, the way Dean’s gaze briefly meets his own and then dips almost imperceptibly lower, only to retreat, skittish, self-conscious. Castiel’s suddenly so tired of dancing around this, refuses to squander these opportunities any longer when they’re so few and far between, so quick to slip away. Castiel could be gone by tomorrow, and he knows that takes a toll on Dean. Castiel hates to do it. The departure takes its toll on him too, not knowing exactly where he stands with Dean, what it is he’s leaving behind, but being absolutely certain that he _wants_ to come back to Dean, wants to stay with him as long as he’s allowed.

Castiel has no more patience for pretending that he doesn’t feel something there, that there isn’t an inexorable _pull_ that he can only describe as abject longing – that unspoken gravitation that nearly drives him to madness every time he’s near Dean, _alone_ with Dean. Castiel’s not ashamed or embarrassed of these feelings, not exactly, but he’s beginning to understand why humans are guarded about such strong emotions, why they hold things back out of sheer doubtfulness, content to suffer on the precipice of a risk, of change. There are some things that one can’t come back from. There is some fear, perhaps – appropriate, Castiel thinks, for this situation – but the urgency, the _want_ is stronger. Castiel simply can’t resist any longer. It’s nothing short of a miracle that he’s managed to hold himself back until now.

There’s something in Dean’s eyes too, Castiel’s sure of it, the same yearning, the same hesitation. Castiel steps forward, sways in close, much closer than he usually gets before Dean starts making noise about _personal space_ , is drawn in by the warmth radiating from Dean’s skin, the smell of his soap, that indefinable essence that calls out to Castiel specifically.

He trains his eyes on Dean’s until he looks back, holds Castiel’s gaze. The smile has slipped from Dean’s face, replaced by sober confusion. “Cas?” he asks, sounding a bit unsure, but he doesn’t protest, doesn’t move away, and Castiel takes it as a sign not to be deterred.

He gently places a hand just above Dean’s elbow, the other settling on his shoulder, so close to the mark Castiel once left. That doesn’t escape Dean’s notice either, it seems, his eyes flicking towards Castiel’s fingers but swiftly drawing back, boring into Castiel’s once more. Castiel slides his palm up to the nape of his neck and Dean goes still, eyes just a bit wider than before, but he doesn’t push Castiel away.

Castiel closes the scant distance between them before he loses his nerve, before Dean can summon up a sarcastic remark to ruin the moment or he scurries away like he usually does in moments such as these. Castiel takes it slow at first, no desire of his own to be tentative but not wanting to push Dean either. Castiel delights in the heat of his mouth, the plush give of his lips, Dean’s stubble abrasive but undeniably pleasant against his own as Castiel kisses him properly. A surprised sound bubbles up from Dean’s throat – and from Castiel’s throat too, as he pours himself into it more completely, in awe of how _good_ it feels.

Dean’s not too caught off guard to kiss back – uncertain, from what Castiel can tell, but evidently not repulsed – and the wave of relief, of _elation_ that washes over Castiel nearly sends him to the floor.

He pulls away then, needs to collect himself, needs to see what waits for him in the wake of his sudden boldness. Dean looks mildly stunned, eyelashes fluttering, mouth working soundlessly for just a moment before he puts his walls back up, posture rigid, eyes darting away. After a few interminable beats of silence, he finally speaks. “What’d you do that for, Cas?” he asks, face unreadable, voice subdued.

There’s almost an accusatory note to it, but he doesn’t sound angry. Castiel had considered the possibility that he might be, that his affections might not be returned, that Dean might ostensibly reject him for the male vessel he’s taken, although Castiel is relatively convinced about Dean’s _actual_ proclivities. Castiel had known that taking this leap could put a barrier between Dean and himself, one that would take ages to dismantle, but it would have been worse if he’d never found out – never learned how Dean’s mouth feels beneath his own, if there’s any chance of this being more, if this is something Castiel might get to have.

If anything, Dean sounds… _sad_ , shaken up and wary. That’s not an outcome Castiel had anticipated but he can’t deny that it makes sense – it’s so _like_ Dean not to trust this, to not believe that Castiel could possibly mean what, frankly, seems obvious. It’s no surprise that Dean remains guarded, closed-off, even as he leans into Castiel’s touch, fingers brushing his cheek, too skeptical to put faith in it but too starved for affection to turn it down.

Castiel’s heart breaks for him, as it often does. Like so many things, heartbreak wasn’t an easily understood concept for Castiel before he met Dean. But he won’t let his own sense of helplessness be the end of it this time, is bizarrely _encouraged_ in the face of the burden that Dean carries. It makes him determined to offer relief and a sense of security, to show Dean how worthy he is, how treasured.

Dean has asked him a question and Castiel wants to be absolutely clear about this, no room for misinterpretation or argument. He knows that Dean is sometimes uncomfortable with a particular level of sincerity, but he needs to _know_ , he needs to see how much he means to Castiel.

Castiel lets his palm rest solidly against Dean’s jaw, thumb tracing his delicate cheekbone. “I’ve wanted to do that for a very long time,” he says carefully. There are a thousand ways he could answer that question, ways that neither of them have the time or composure for. It’s a simple response, but hopefully enough to convey all the things he’s not saying, and he looks at Dean with unwavering intent, so he understands that Castiel _means_ it, so he realizes how fiercely Castiel longs for him.

Dean hasn’t summoned up a response yet, and Castiel can’t quite be sure in this light, but he thinks he catches a hint of a pink blush beneath Dean’s freckles as he traces them with the tips of his fingers – and isn’t _that_ a heady feeling, to know he’s the one who put it there.

Even braver now, Castiel forges ahead. “I’d like to try it again,” he says, smiling very faintly, “If that’s all right with you.”

Dean licks his lips - a nervous reflex perhaps, not meant to be provocative – but Castiel’s eyes swoop down to watch anyway, take their time travelling back up the length of Dean’s face and yes, there is a definite red tinge staining his cheeks. “Knock—” Dean starts and stops, clears his throat, voice gone hoarse, “Knock yourself out,” he says in a transparent attempt at nonchalance.

Castiel isn’t fooled by his show of indifference, and he moves in more confidently this time, pressing in close to Dean, palming his hip, fingers caressing his jaw, grasping his chin to guide their mouths together. Dean’s hands settle against his chest and Castiel wants more of that, Dean’s hands everywhere, wants to do the same to Dean, feel every inch of his smooth, tempting skin, hot and so, so alive.

Castiel’s experience with kissing is limited, but he knows, _indisputably_ , that nothing will ever compare to this. He’s less restrained now but takes his time regardless, learning Dean, gauging his reactions, his responsiveness. There’s no question that Dean’s kissing back this time, coaxing Castiel deeper, a barely-there moan escaping, shivering when Castiel sucks his bottom lip between his own.

It’s nothing short of exhilarating to know that Dean’s receptive to this, that he’s just as eager for it, because now that Castiel has touched him, has kissed him and felt him beneath his fingertips, he has no hope of ever stopping. Castiel would lose his mind if he never got to have this again.

If Dean has trouble seeing Castiel’s affections for what they are, then Castiel’s glad to give him something more tangible to hold onto, more permanent than unspoken desire, unacted upon. This feels like a _promise_ , a memory for both of them to think about when they’re apart, to hope for – ever more incentive to bring them back together.

Dean chases him when he withdraws this time, evidently not through. His hands are fisted in Castiel’s collar and he pulls him close, right back where he was, where he _belongs_. Their kisses are leisurely, indulgent, and then nearing frantic in turns, hands roaming. Their tongues fleetingly slide together and Castiel slips a hand beneath Dean’s overshirt to settle against the small of his back, pressing them together more tightly.

Castiel loses track of time, could spend _hours_ doing this if they only had the luxury. When they finally part there’s obvious reluctance from both of them, still standing impossibly near, breathing each other’s air.

Dean’s eyes are closed, and Castiel swears he can _see_ the reality of the situation – what they’ve just done, what it _means_ – taking hold in Dean’s mind, his jaw tight, a crease forming on his forehead.

Castiel itches to soothe his worries, doesn’t wish to let Dean fly into a panic and close himself off. He won’t let Dean run away just because he thinks Castiel is going be the one to do it first. He holds Dean’s face carefully in his hands and Dean lets him, actually relaxing at the touch of Castiel’s fingers, leaning into his cupped palms, finally meeting Castiel’s eyes, unafraid.

“That was nice,” Castiel says with a half-smile, pleased at the calm, content expression on Dean’s face, angling to keep it there. “We should do this again sometime.” He wants to make a point that this isn’t over, that he’s open to whatever else this entails, wherever they could take this from here, but they don’t have to have a conversation that Dean’s not ready for. Castiel might not be ready for that either – expressing themselves without words is enough, for now.

Dean gives him a casual once-over. “I’m not really busy right now,” he offers, renewed self-assurance warring with uncharacteristic shyness.

But then there’s that smile again, and Castiel knows exactly what caused it this time. He can hear Dean’s soul singing to him, shining brighter than ever, and Castiel’s heart – his primitive, remarkable human heart – might actually burst through his chest as it fills with pride, with unfettered adoration for the man in front of him.

“In a minute,” Castiel replies, still smiling, wider now in the face of Dean’s bright grin, “I just—” and he falters, unable properly articulate it. Undoubtedly there is an ever-growing list of things he wants to do with Dean, but for now all he wants is just to _hold_ him.

So he does, wraps Dean up close, feeling their hearts beat together, listening to Dean’s breathing in his ear. In an embrace like this he can feel how Dean’s faintly trembling, how the tension is ebbing away as he melts against Castiel. Castiel loves how strong and solid he feels, that he allows himself to be vulnerable in Castiel’s arms, that he encircles Castiel tightly, wanting him to be safe too, wanting him _here_.

Castiel wants that as well, more than anything – to be able to stay, to truly make his place with Dean a home. He desperately hopes that someday that will be more than just a fantasy, more than a distant, abstract possibility.

For now he savors the perfection of this moment, his fingers in Dean’s hair, his lips gently grazing Dean’s cheek. He wants it to serve as a vow, a reminder, not just to Dean but to himself, that even when Castiel isn’t around, in his mind – in his heart, in the _very core_ of him – this is where he’ll be.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks again, forever and ever, for the continued enthusiasm and support. Seriously, AMAZING <3
> 
> You can find me on [tumblr](http://sass-master-stina.tumblr.com) or [Twitter](https://twitter.com/SassMasterStina)


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